


This Christmas (you already have my heart)

by eloquated



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Sherlock Secret Santa, holiday fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 17:51:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17146313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquated/pseuds/eloquated
Summary: On Christmas Eve, Greg Lestrade receives some good advice from his best friend.After all, pining after Mycroft Holmes isn't in the holiday spirit!For kitten-kin in the 2018 Sherlock Secret Santa.





	This Christmas (you already have my heart)

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas! 
> 
> This is my first year taking part in the Sherlock Secret Santa, and it was a wonderful experience. I've never written Mystrade before, but after this? I think I'm going to have to write more!
> 
> Have a happy holiday and a wonderful new year!
> 
> _Dedicated to kitten-kin in the 2018 Sherlock Secret Santa! ___

“Oh  _ blast _ , sorry- I didn’t mean to-- really I’m so sorry-- the crowd and it’s--”  

Snow drifted down through the slanted glow of the streetlights and illuminated the dwindling crowd making their way out of the brightly lit theatre.  The sounds of their laughter lilted on frosty breaths in the cold night air, delighted by the performace they’d just seen. It was a motley collection, from children dangling from their parent’s arms, or bouncing down the slippery stairs at alarming speeds; to the elderly guests bundled in scarves and coats, watching them with indulgent smiles.

This was the side of Christmas that Greg liked best, even when he had sat through the performance alone.

Laughing broadly, the Inspector pushed himself up from the side of his car and jogged up the stairs to offer a hand to the fumbling cellist, her instrument clearly rebelling against the idea of being dragged halfway across the city (for the second time that night!) on the underground.  “Hullo Molls! Here, lets have that off you!” 

“Greg!”  Molly burst out with a surprised and grateful smile, letting her friend rescue her instrument before it staged an escape and went tumbling down the stone stairs, “What are you doing here?  I thought you said you were stuck at the office over Christmas!” For half a moment, Greg was amusedly unsure if she was going to smack his arm or hug him-- but it seemed the Christmas spirit had moved her, and with a surplus of awkwardly angled affection, Molly threw her arms around his neck, cello and all.

“I did!  Until I found out that that unreliable blighter over at Baker Street was all caught up in a case and wasn’t going to be here tonight.  And specially when your mum couldn’t make it! Wasn’t like I was going to miss it, now was I? Thought you knew me better than that!”

Molly’s arms tightened around his neck a little more securely, and he could smell the dab of perfume she’d dotted behind her ear before the performance.  Something floral, he supposed, though he’d never been the best judge of that sort of thing. Nice, anyway, suited her. “This is why you’re my best friend.” She agreed, all propped up on the tips of her toes, “Even if I know you’re just afraid to show up at Sherlock’s unescorted, just in case a certain  _ respectable  _ elder Holmes might be there!”

“Hey now!  None of that cheek from you, or I’ll let you drag this oversized violin home on the tube!”

“Idle threat, Gregory Lestrade, you’d never!”

Pulling a face (because that was a losing argument, and after twelve years they both knew it) Greg hoisted up the cello case and began picking his way down the stairs.  “It’s got nothing to do with My-- with Mr. Holmes.” He said, and realized as soon as he’d corrected himself that it was the wrong thing to say, “I wanted to hear you play, Molls.  Don’t I always? Doesn’t feel quite like Christmas without it.”

Molly’s smile softened and she scurried ahead to open the car door for Greg, since he’d more than gallantly relieved her of her instrument, “I know what you mean.. I wasn’t sure if I was going to go by Sherlock’s tonight at all.  But, well, I can’t very well leave you alone, can I? What would you do without your-”

“Meddling!”

“Wingwoman!”  She beamed across his interjection, and for a moment, Greg could almost forget that he was rocketing through his forties, with the mile signs for fifty appearing shortly ahead.  That the year had seen him short one marriage, and saddled with more work than any one man could do. 

Not to mention a hopeless, pointless, frankly embarrassing crush on a man that probably didn’t know the meaning of ‘date’, much less do it.

And even less with men like Greg.  No, he told himself for the dozenth time in the last week-- if Mycroft Holmes were to date anyone, they’d be the sort with a pedigree a mile long, and a mansion in Hampstead, or one of those grace and favour businesses out in the country.  People with class and pretensions, who knew which fork went with which course, and had never so much as stepped within a mile of the local pub.

In other words, people that had no relation to Gregory Lestrade, whatever he might have worked himself up to.

“Greg?”  Molly’s hand lighted on his arm with a warm squeeze, the affection luring the Inspector out of his dark reverie, “I still think you should talk to him.  I mean, I’m sure he’s noticed that you clam right up around him lately, and the Holmses.. Well, they’re just not very good with social cues. Or.. people.”  She smiled at the tentative tease, and brightened when he chuckled under his breath, “He probably thinks he’s done something wrong. And you know he’s not going back to Sussex for Christmas, so he might like some company.”

With a jingle of his keys, Greg slid into the driver’s seat and reached across the console to unlock the passenger’s side for Molly, “I knew he wasn’t, but how did you?  Starting to employ some spies of your own?” He teased, and ignored her cheeky huff.

“It would serve you right if I did.  I’d be a marvelous spymaster.”

“You get walked right over!  You’d adopt your spies and never send them out on assignments because you wouldn’t want them to get hurt!”

“And you’re going to miss Mycroft if you don’t get moving.  I’m determined to see you happy this year, Greg.. Even if I have to call in all my Christmas miracles to make it happen.” 

“It might take that, and all.”  He muttered under his breath, but obediently pulled out into the slow evening traffic.  

The car wasn’t anything special, and they were halfway to Molly’s by the time the air coming out of the registers was anything but frosty, despite her best efforts to coax something like heat from them.  A quick turnaround saw the rebellious cello set in the front hallway, and replaced with a generous armful of brightly wrapped gifts that were neatly stored in the back of the car with Greg’s.

Neither of them was quite sure when it had become a habit, but at some point over the last several years, it had.  And it didn’t seem quite Christmas if they didn’t stop by Baker Street. 

Even if Sherlock was probably going to be aborbed in his case, and John would be running around after Rosie.  With any lucky, Molly silently considered, they’d run into Mycroft and Greg would finally…

Well, sometimes Christmas miracles needed a little push.  Santa was busy, after all, and he hadn’t been watching the two grown men dance circles around one another for the last year. He didn’t spend every Thursday with Greg watching terrible movies and trying to put a happy spin on being middle aged and single.

And Santa Claus had certainly never seen the way Mycroft would consciously try not to light up when Gregory walked into the room.  

No, Santa had his hands full with the rest of the world!  Molly could play the elf tonight.

“Molls, are you sure you want to come up?  I know you’re probably not well pleased with Sherlock after tonight.”  Greg’s voice rumbled along with the crunch of the tires outside 221 Baker Street, gritting on the snowy curb.  In the half light of the sulfur yellow street lamps she could make out the concern on his face, and the thinly veiled conflict in his eyes.  Half scared that Mycroft would be there, and half that he wouldn’t, she’d wager.

Cracking a smile that was made of more resignation than amusement, Molly shook her head and slipped out of the car to retrieve her packages, “The best thing I’ve ever done for myself was accept where I fit in Sherlock’s life.  We’re friends, and I’m completely happy with that. Besides, you’re not escaping quite that easily, so don’t try to make me your excuse!”

The music flooding down the staircase was a sort of defiant interpretation of a Christmas carol, with sliding notes and wild arpeggios that danced mishievously in the air.  Balacing their packages, Molly and Greg made their way up, exchanging a long suffering smile. Sherlock’s music had always been somethng of a litmus test for his mood, and they both wondered just who the ‘lucky’ recipient of the slightly butchered holiday classic was.

Neither of them were surprised to see Sherlock by the window, or Mrs. Hudson in her boy’s vacated chair.  That had become normal, probably about the same point, Greg mused, that it had turned normal for them to start visiting on Christmas Eve!  

No, the strange thing was the quiet and immaculately dressed elder Holmes, sitting in what had once been John’s chair.  The firelight caught and swirled, bright amber, through the drink in his hand, and Greg couldn’t deny (not to himself, and no to the wickedly perceptive woman at his side) the way his heart flip flopped against his ribs at the sight of him.

His black and grey pinstripe was severe, and tailored to within an inch of its life.  All cut lines and sharp creases that made Greg’s palms itch. 

Just here from the office then.  And a rough day of it. 

Greg wasn’t sure when he’d learned to gauge Mycroft’s mood by his clothing-- Lord knew it was the sort of thing Freud would have a field day with!  But he wanted to muss up all those perfect angles, and tangle his fingers through Mycroft’s hair to see if it would curl. To see if it was a soft, threaded with bright copper in the firelight, as it looked.  He was… It was torture.

“Happy Christmas, both of you!”  Mrs. Hudson trilled from her purloined seat, and waved them into the house with a beaming smile, “Oh!  You brought gifts, really you didn’t have to do that!”

“I believe it’s  _ customary _ .”  Sherlock muttered from his place by the window, and untucked the violin from beneath his chin.  If Molly noticed the way he said the word, like it was unpleasant and slithery on his tongue, she didn’t comment-- instead, she set down her gaily wrapped packages on the side table and turned her attention to Mrs. Hudson.  

From the corner of his eye, Greg caught the flash of annoyance on Sherlock’s face-- served him right, if he wanted to be a Grinch!

And then Mycroft was half turning in his seat, and Greg knew he was too old to blush like this.  For just an instant, he allowed himself to wonder at the pink flush on Mycroft’s cheeks, warming the light smattering of freckles in a way that shouldn’t be so appealing!  For just a few seconds, he let himself ignore that the heat was probably from the fireplace, even knowing that someone like that?

Impossible.

“Inspector Lestrade, how --”

“Greg.  How many times do I have to remind you?” The tease escaped before he could bite it back, and Greg wondered if there was any chance the world actually would just open up and swallow him.  This was Mycroft bloody Holmes, the British Government himself-- not some sweet boy behind the bike sheds when Greg was in high school! 

Not that they ever would have met there.  Greg had attended a perfectly respectable state school, but he was fairly certain that the Holmes boys, for all their eccentricities, had attended somewhere with a tuition that cost more than his mortgage.

“At least once more, I suppose. Happy Christmas.. Gregory.”  

The corners of Mycroft’s mouth crimped in a small, easily overlooked smile.  It wasn’t a tease, not  _ really _ , not a  _ proper _ one, but it was more than enough for the butterflies in Greg’s stomach to take flight and wing wildly around his insides.  They were probably snobby butterflies in bespoke suits, he thought wryly. Or festive ones in Father Christmas costumes. They certainly felt stronger than the usual variety!

“I suppose I should be going, there’s --”

“Mycroft!”  The elder brother was halfway from his seat when Sherlock’s voice cut through what was probably intended to be a polite excuse.  It was a touch too loud, too annoyed, and Greg caught the almost guilty little flinch in Mycroft’s eyes. If anything, the colour on his cheeks darkened, caught out, and Greg had the sinking feeling that he was missing something.  Probably something important, from the sounds of it.

“Gavin-!”  Lestrade grit his teeth and turned his attention to the demanding genius.  Sherlock was standing by the window and gesturing towards the two other men with his bow in dramatic little swishes, as though he were passing some medieval proclamation.  “Please take my brother out. And out of my misery!’

“Aren’t you both supposed to smart?  All of this pining and moping is pointless!  Yes, Lestrade, he’s probably out of your.. What’s that ridiculous colloquialism?”

“His league.”   Molly supplied, but her half smile warned him to chose his next words very carefully.

“Yes, league.  But given the  _ surplus _ of physical indicators, even a toddler should be able to see that my brother doesn’t give a damn about your socio-economic condition.  And Mycroft?” Sherlock had hit his stride, the colour rising on his brother’s cheeks and blurring his cinnamon coloured freckles, “You’ve wanted a ‘nice man’ to bring home to Mummy since you were fifteen, and trying not to make ludicrous expressions at that boy-- whatever his name was.  Not important. Deleted.’

“Well this is obviously your opportunity.  Christmas miracles and all that rubbish. Now  _ go! _ ”

From her place next to Mrs. Hudson, Molly watched as Greg and Mycroft exchanged a look.  Apologetic, long suffering.

And hopeful. 

“Well… it’s.. If you haven’t got plans?”  It was the least suave that Greg had ever felt, tongue-tied and fumbling when Mycroft finally did smile up at him.  “Since His Majesty is ordering us out.. Let me take you for dinner?”

The nod of agreement was all he needed, and even if he didn’t quite have the courage to reach out for his hand?  Greg helped him with his coat, and held the door. 

Maybe the blush wasn’t from the fire, after all.

He couldn’t wait to find out.


End file.
